Kicking Myself

So... I have this friend, Nick. Nick is great. Every time I talk to him he encourages me to write more often. He'll bring up something I put on Facebook or just generally be positive about what I have to say. He just sent me a chat about me needing to blog. Since I have a blog (look left, look right, yep. This would be it.), it's kinda dumb that I haven't written anything... um... this year, is it? Holy balls. I'm lame.


So... I've been busy, of course. But as I have read all the Hunger Games books and several other trashy or funny novels, I have caught up on Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead (WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!?!?!?!?), and there have been days when I have gotten through my ENTIRE news feed on Facebook, I think I could have jotted down a bit here or there. 


The main issue with writing this blog is that it doesn't really have a theme. It's not like this is the place you get incredible recipes that are low-fat/ organic/ sustainable/ vegan but taste exactly like bacon on top of other pork products (Come to think of it, I would TOTALLY want that recipe). I don't have the technology/ambition to upload clever photos of my crafty goodness. I occasionally take pictures of costumes I design, but that's all work-y. 


I had an idea today to do an experiment where I dress like a Muslim woman with a scarf on my head and whatnot for a month just as a social experiment... but I realized that all of my shirts show off too much cleavage (40G kinda cleavage), so the scarves would have to be REALLY big... plus I would live in fear that an actual Muslim woman would approach me and greet me. Although I know that the proper response to "Alsalam Alaikum" is "Wa' Alaikum Salaam," (because I've seen "Malcolm X" and "Aladdin"), I'm pretty sure I would freeze up worse than I do when I am greeted in the Mexican market and can't even manage to say "Gracias" without sounding like an utter tool.


I was also thinking about writing a blog about my journey to run a half marathon (no really). For anyone who doesn't know (and I'm pretty sure the 7 people that actually read this do), my dad is a race director for ultra-marathons. What that means is that he organizes a crap-ton of people who want to strap on some expensive shoes and run through the mountains for ungodly distances. He does three distances: 1/2 marathon (for fun!), a 50 miler, and a 100 miler. (There is much crying and non-traditional use of Vaseline on that last one.) I am the official cook for his races. 

Nothing more flattering than wearing and apron over 5 layers of fleece!

And while I can make a delicious vegan chili for 200 people (okay... maybe I SHOULD put recipes on this thing), I haven't really run since I was in 8th grade, and my dad can attest that I spent that entire 10k bitching and moaning and mostly walking. I am not a runner. (When people at the races ask me about me running, my "clever" response is always "I only run when chased, and I'm rarely chaste." A homonym. ha ha.) Cut to this last race I was working. I'm standing in my cook apron, taking a break from standing at the stove to stand not at the stove. I'm chatting with a few runners who good-naturedly start ribbing me about not running. A guy named Ethan really wants to know when I'm going to run one of my dad's races. I throw down the "chased/chaste joke" response, to no avail. I talk about my crappy back issues (did I mention 40G boobs?) and he is not fazed. 

40 G... as in, "G"od damn those are huge boobs!

When I finally hide behind the fact that I have to cook, Ethan throws down for realsies. He says that if I run a race, he will cook in my place. He is backed up by several other runners egging me on. The whole thing goes back and forth in something akin to when I got talked into jumping off a bridge in high school (so, Mom, I guess you know my answer there...), and suddenly I have agreed to train to run my dad's 1/2 marathon. 13.2 miles doesn't sound like that much (to Marines, anyway), but my dad is evil incarnate, and his race is 6.1 miles straight up a mountain and then 6.1 miles back down it.


Which reminds me of the story of when I almost car-jacked at kayaker. You see, though I personally am a large, lazy person, I tend to have Sporty Spice friends. I don't know how this happens, but it is pretty true, especially since I moved to LA. I got talking once with a few of my good friends, Amber, Dominick, Amanda, and Chris, about how much I love camping. (Ya see, I go camping every Memorial Day weekend and cook for a crap-ton of people for 4 days. We call it camping, but it's about 30 feet to our car, I cook with an amazingly equipped kitchen that is literally 4 times the size of my kitchen at home, we sleep on a huge air mattress... in fact, the only thing that really qualifies it as camping is that the walls are made of fabric and you need a flashlight and shoes to go pee.) Well, these peeps who also like camping (the real kind, like the "you better fucking pack a shovel and toilet paper" kind) got me all excited about this camping spot on an island off the coast of Santa Barbara. It sounded pretty killer, actually. These were our best friends and hanging out for the weekend on a goddamn island? It's like "Cast Away" only with less volleyball and more beer. Sweet! 

Amber and Dominick

Amanda and Chris

I, of course, over-packed for the weekend, and my dear friends were tasked with dragging a bunch of my crap (including a heavy-ass 10x10 pop-up tent (what?!?) from the boat landing and down the mile long dirt road to our campsite, which was conveniently located closest to the outhouse, which had no lights and was just really a room which housed the gaping, stench filled hole with a toilet seat set upon it. (I love camping.) Ya see, the island wasn't plumbed... which meant that the water we brought was all the water we had.

Us just full of delight that we are being ditched on this island with no flush toilets.

The first night was lovely. Much laughter was had by all. We got silly on food and booze and passed out rather early from the energy expended from all the dragging and walking and setting up of my over-prepared campsite. The next morning is when it happened. That's when I realized that camping was for reals. We had a lovely breakfast and everyone decided to go on a hike that day to explore the island. I was suddenly face to face with the reality that camping on an island did not have built in entertainment, and "nature" was what we were there for. We put on our best hiking duds, grabbed three water bottles (like, the kind you get at a fast food restaurant or out of a vending machine... the little ones) total, and started up the path.
We came to a big map/sign that showed all the trails on the island. Turned out that the tiny island wasn't quite as tiny as I'd imagined. Our options were: hike back to the beach where the dock for the ferry boat was (1 mile), hike up toward the side of the island that faced Santa Barbara and walk along the cliffs (2 miles- which I was secretly hoping for, but discouraged by, because it looked like a whole lotta up to get to the top of the cliffs), an out and back to the beach on the western side of the island (7 miles), and a hike that would take us around the circumference of the entire island (about 13 miles). Much to my horror, my evil, evil friends started getting excited about the idea of doing the circumference hike. Ho-ly shit. In proper "I totally get picked last for dodgeball" manner, I pleaded with them to observe the girth of my ass and take pity. The compromise was made that we would take the "short" hike and just do the 7 miles. Fuck. Me.
The hike started out brutal right from the first hundred yards. We had to go up this trail that sorta just cut straight up the side of this hill in front of us. I figured we'd get to the top of this hill and just walk across this imagined plateau from there... and there would be unicorns too. We got to the top of that hill and I suddenly realized that the whole fucking island was a hill... and we had only just begun to go up it. 

It just kept... going... up.

By the time I could actually see how goddamn UP this hike was, the rest of the group had already broken into the three couples (who somehow seemed to be paired up simply on how well they could scale a freaking mountain- I bet that isn't one of the questions on eHarmony!). It took a really really long time for me to drag my ass to the top of that mountain. And I stood at the top of the hill, my water bottle long since emptied, and I fought with the idiots in my brain. My mathematically inclined brain idiot said, "That was only 1.75 miles and it kicked your ass so hard you are now purple." And the brain idiot that secretly likes reading tabloid magazines and often succumbs to peer pressure said, "The rest of your friends are probably already at the beach on the other side and wondering where you are." And math idiot says, "If you continue walking and don't go back now, you will have to walk TWICE as far, AND it might seem like cake now because it's downhill to the beach on the other side... but you will have to walk UPHILL to get back to this point coming back." And the artsy fartsy brain idiot that loves travel based screen savers and is drawn to shiny things said, "I bet the beach on the other side is spectacular. Like The Blue Lagoon." And then I pictured Joe and me frolicking in the beautiful surf on a white sand beach and the math brain idiot got outvoted. So on we walked.
It didn't take that long to finish the rest of the hike to the Western beach. But by the time I got there, I LITERALLY thought I was going to die (and not like the "I literally just walked a million miles" kind of crap that 16 year olds seem to say these days). The weather was sunny and clear and in the mid 80s, and I had unfortunately dressed that day in 100 pounds of extra body weight.... and jeans... and we were all out of water. 

Proof that I was delirious... Why the hell am I smiling?

By the time we finally stepped off the path and onto the beach (which was, in fact, freaking gorgeous, by the way), I'm pretty sure I looked like the first wave of the zombie apocalypse. My friends, however, did not fear my random twitching and sweat-stained knee pits (Like, really? You can get sweaty on the back of your knees? Apparently.). They offered me a delightfully shaded tree stump to set myself on and much encouragement. And though I love my friends with all of my heart, I wanted to rip their faces off and shove them up a dolphin's butthole at that moment, as I was about to die and they were cooing about the majesty of this idyllic beach. I somehow dragged myself to the water's edge to try in some half-assed way to play in the surf as I had imagined on that mountaintop... only to discover that (oh yeah) it's still the fucking Pacific Ocean and the water is colder than a nun's vagina. Not like the cool, refreshing kind of water that just takes a minute to get used to but then is just lovely. No. We're talking like attempting to grab that last bottle of beer from the cooler after midnight at a 4th of July barbecue. It's just not worth it. So now 90% of me is shvitzing like a whore in synagogue, and from my ankles down I have hypothermia. Fuck.

Apparently boys don't have feeling in their skin area, because they totally went in the water and, like, hung out there.

So I drag myself back to sit under a tree and watch my friends run around on the beach and flirt with each other and be all tampon commercial-y, and I slowly start to imagine my impending demise. Math brain idiot starts to gloat. "You see that 70 degree incline behind you? Yeah, jackass. You have to walk back UP that to get back to your tent." I look around and there is no blue emergency phone. There is beach. There is sand. There is a picnic table. (I guess for the bitches that are so twinked out that they also like to haul a wine and cheese basket on their goddamn 7 mile hike.) There is no shortcut home. And that is when I came to the inevitable conclusion that I was going to die right there under that tree. I'm pretty sure I muttered something ridiculous to Dominick at that point, because I vaguely recall him saying something about LifeFlight not being able to land on that beach. I think he walked away then... but I'm pretty sure I was hallucinating at that point (either that or the 5 others had gotten together earlier to work out the jazz choreography they were suddenly doing to entertain me). And as I sat there saying mental goodbyes to my friends and feeling exceedingly sorry for myself, two people in kayaks happened to come around the cliff and near the beach where I was sitting. And suddenly I found myself hatching a plan.
I feel like I need to make something perfectly clear here. I have never been in a kayak. The closest I have ever come to that is the Davy Crockett Explorer Canoes ride at Disneyland. And I somehow feel like the paddling strength of a boat with 30 people on it is not solely due to my brilliant oar work. 

Oh yeah... I'm totally pulling the lion's share.

I further need to state that friends of mine have kayaked and described kayak training to me to my abject terror. You have to do these "rolls" where the kayak is overturned and you- still strapped to the fucking thing- have to right yourself. Which is pretty much my greatest phobia- being trapped underwater. (Add sharks to that- which you probably could very easily do in this part of the ocean- and you have recreated my recurring nightmare since I was 7 and secretly watched "Jaws.") Pile on the fact that the water was pretty choppy and the kayakers (who I'm pretty sure had done this before) were struggling a bit AND the fact that I have the upper body strength of a "before" picture (I have NEVER successfully done a single pull-up in my life, even in middle school when we were doing all that physical fitness testing. Sorry to disappoint you, President H.W. Bush.). 

Why did you have to be such a weakling on my watch? I can't take it anymore!

Yeah, and did I mention that the water felt like I had fallen into the pond while ice skating? But I truly contemplated that I was going to "save" myself by... swimming out through freezing water... wrestling a plastic floating thing away from someone who I'm pretty sure owned a Bowflex... defend myself from the OTHER kayaker, who I'm sure at least had a Bally's membership... immediately teach myself how to operate same said floating thing... and then somehow navigate to the other side of the island where the boat landing was and then walk the mile down the (albeit flat) road back to the campsite and hope that the kayakers wouldn't recognize me as one of the 10 other campers staying on that island that weekend and come kick the shit out of me as I slept. My plan was foolproof!
However, by the time I got through planning it in my delirium, the kayakers had pretty much passed the little cove where I sat. And my ever so genius plan had to be tucked away for the next time I found myself in my own brain's Hunger Game scenario. (Let that be a lesson to any kayakers that might happen by me in the future... I could possibly flail in the water near you in a very upsetting way.) That's the point that I started crying in self pity. About 2 minutes into that is when I laid down and fell asleep.

If I died, at least Joe would still have a pillow.

It is amazing how much optimism is contained in one little nap in the shade on a beautiful beach. When I woke up, I decided to live. My friends, clearly finished with their reindeer games, were ready to head back. I was completely aware that the trek back would NOT be all of us moving as one unit, and I waved them on as I begin to climb back up the mountain in literal 6 inch steps. I kept getting passed by other people on the trail. I'm pretty sure there was a moment I had to pull off the path to let an octogenarian in a sunhat power-walk past me. But the peer pressure brain idiot had been drowned in the bay, so I didn't give a rat's ass how slow I was. As our elevation increased, so did the sun. With no water at all, I was totally overheating. I rolled up my jeans as high as they would go and took off my shirt. Now these granola eaters out for a pleasure hike were coming across a sweat-drenched woman in awkward capris and a Frederick's of Hollywood bra with her shirt hanging out her back pocket and stomach skin whiter than Mitt Romney's ass. (I'm pretty sure that my belly thinks a "two piece" is something you order at KFC.) 

I look like a groupie for Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Then something weird happened... I saw the top of the hill in the distance.... and I started running.


What?!?


Yup. In my bra and rolled jeans and crappy shoes, I started running back along the trail. I have no goddamn clue what clicked or snapped in my brain at that moment, but I really wanted to run. And it felt kinda good. I got that runner's high thing my dad had told me about. My friends (who were WAY ahead because I had started out at a pace that would have been outdistanced by a nursing home resident with tennis balls on their walker) actually were very concerned about me. When they got back to the campsite, they started to fill water bottles to hike back toward me to help me down the mountain. And then here Joe and I come, fucking running down the trail toward them. What the hell? 
We spent the rest of the time that weekend doing MUCH easier hikes (we spotted a fox on the 2 mile hike up to the cliffs!) and drinking a lot. 

Seriously!

I sometimes wonder if my fit friends ever were disappointed they weren't able to do the big 13 mile loop the next day. But I think they realized a bloated corpse would be hard to drag back to the boat... especially when they already had the pop-up tent to carry.


So that's the story of 7 miles hiking. And I have now somehow been convinced (fucking peer pressure brain idiot!) to RUN 13.2 miles in June of 2013. (They let me have until next year because they saw the panic in my face when they suggested that 2 1/2 months was plenty of time to train for a half marathon.) 


I guess I should write about that then, huh?


Day 1:
Didn't exercise at all. The sum total of movement consisted of folding laundry, pushing a shopping cart, lifting a kid into a carseat, and bending over to pick stickers off the floor tiles where Baz had "decorated" them. My back is still in spasm from falling down the stairs last week. (Yeah, that happened.) I'm guessing the first month or two of "training" will consist of doing all the physical therapy exercises I was assigned when I first developed sciatica. Joy.


If you have read this far, I am amazed. Thanks.

Fake Bill Cosby Email

Today I received an email from a family member (who is more conservative than I am, we'll just say) that was filled with ideas that upset me. I felt the need to respond, but I thought I might make my opinions public so that it could further encourage debate.

First of all, the email purported to be written by Bill Cosby. It was entitled "Bill Cosby: I'm 76 and I'm Tired." After writing the response to my family member, I actually took a moment and researched the email to see if my assumption was correct- and it was. So, before I post the email, here is the response from Bill Cosby's actual website:

If you got the BOGUS email, it's time to hit DELETE!

There's an email floating around - entitled "I'm 76 and tired" - purportedly sent by me. I did not write the email, I did not send the email, I'm not 76, and I don't subscribe to the ugly views expressed in the email. We are coming up to an important anniversary on Sunday, which is a day when we should all come together. Whoever wrote this email is not thinking about our country, or what is important. If you get the email, it's time to hit DELETE.

Posted by Bill Cosby on September 9, 2011 at 11:17 AM in News 

That being said, I will now post the original email and my responses to it. (Original email in black, my responses in purple):

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Bill Cosby    :   "I'm 76 and Tired"

I'm 76. Except for brief period in the 50's when I was doing my National Service, I've worked hard since I was 17. Except for some some serious health challenges, I put in 50-hour weeks, and didn't call in sick in nearly 40 years. I made a reasonable salary, but I didn't inherit my job or my income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, it looks as though retirement was a bad idea, and I'm tired. Very tired.

If it was actually Bill Cosby, the work weeks would be longer, the salary would be higher, and there would be no discussion about "inheriting" his job. He would know that entertainers rely, not only on their talent and hard work, but also on a huge amount of luck. It's one and a million to have a show business career, even for hard working people. (Side note: According to the numbers he provided, his career spanned the years 1952 to 1992. If this was written by a white man, which it seems to be, he is not taking into account the sexist and racist hiring/promoting practices that he benefited from during his entire career.)

I'm tired of being told that I have to "spread the wealth" to people who don't have my work ethic. I'm tired of being told the government will take the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy to earn it.      

The whole "spreading the wealth" argument assumes that anyone that needs help is in that position because they are "lazy." Though there are lazy people in every group (let's see how many of the top 1% under 50 work their asses off, haven't inherited at least a large portion of their wealth, and don't spend much of their time socializing). However, the minimum wage that many people work for isn't enough to sustain a family. There are many people working 2 or 3 jobs and still are not able to make ends meet. This false concept that "hard work" is the only thing that separates rich from poor is wrong and dangerous. There are teachers, fire fighters, policemen, and military personnel that have to get food stamps.
   
I'm tired of being told that Islam is a "Religion of Peace," when every day I can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and daughters for their family "honour"; of Muslims rioting over some slight offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren't "believers"; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning teenage rape victims to death for "adultery"; of Muslims mutilating the genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur'an and Shari'a law tells them to.

There ARE people who practice an ugly version of Islam. There are also people who practice an ugly version of Christianity and Judaism. But those are all backwards, antiquated traditions, and people everywhere are working to modernize theology. There are many Islamic people that are working for women's rights, and gay rights, and children's rights, etc. It's impossible to expect other countries to be in the same position as we are when we have had 200 years of religious "freedom" to get to the place we are. 

  
I'm tired of being told that out of "tolerance for other cultures" we must let Saudi Arabia and other Arab countries use our oil money to fund mosques and mandrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in Australia, New Zealand, UK, America and Canada, while no one from these countries are allowed to fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia or any other Arab country to teach love and tolerance..

Once again, the assumption that all mosques teach hate toward Christians is unfair. If Christians were all judged by the Westboro Baptist Church, we would be horrified too. There IS violence in the Koran, but there is a ton of violence in the Bible and the Torah. As society advances, we get farther and farther from our primitive roots. This is happening worldwide and in all cultures.

I'm tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global warming, which no one is allowed to debate.

Global Warming? Really? This is still a question? If 1,000 scientists have exhaustive research that global climate change is happening and 1 scientist tied to big oil says it's not, that's not really a "debate." It's just common sense that we shouldn't do bad things to our planet. And I'm not listening to a) people who have been fed propaganda by big companies who don't want environmental regulations to affect their bottom line, or b) people who believe that we don't have to care for our planet because the rapture is imminent anyway and Jesus will give them a new planet. I am in this for the long haul, and I hope my kids are too. I think I can deal with a little inconvenience to make the world a better place. (And, really Fox News? We shouldn't use high efficiency bulbs because they "look like pig tails" and take a second or two to warm up? There is a point where it just becomes ridiculous.)


I'm tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses or stick a needle in their arm while they tried to fight it off?
 
Drugs are a hard thing to deal with. But I, for one, would rather have addicts have access to help rather than let them be on their own. I favor safety nets in general, but there is also the argument that drug addicts with no access to help are more likely to stay addicted and fall even farther into anti-social behavior and crime. There are studies that prove that communities that provide wellness help have lower crime rates. That's good for everyone.


I'm tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of all parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught. I'm tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor. 
 
I think we can all agree that people who get caught in a scandal need to put on their big boy pants and face the music. And I don't think people should get a free pass on committing crimes because they are public figures. (And throwing in another dig at poor people here is just repetitive.)


I'm really tired of people who don't take responsibility for their lives and actions. I'm tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination or big-whatever for their problems.

People make stupid choices, but some people are also in untenable situations. Sexism, racism, homophobia... all of those things still exist. Pretending that everyone is in their current situation only because of their personal choices is naive at best. There are plenty of people who throw away major opportunity and still sit pretty. And there are hard working people who can't get a job, or education, or any breaks. And "big-whatever" has LOTS of money to spend to keep the status quo.

I'm also tired and fed up with seeing young men and women in their teens and early 20's bedeck them selves in tattoos and face studs, thereby making themselves un-employable and claiming money from the Government.

Assuming that young people styling themselves like that means they won't be employable and will collect welfare does nothing but demonstrate the old age of the author (whoever he may be). It's like him waving his cane around and telling "young whipersnappers" to get off his lawn. Styles change. There are plenty of employers that will hire young tattooed and pierced people. And there are plenty of tattooed and pierced employers out there.


Yes, I'm damn tired. But I'm also glad to be 76.. Because, mostly, I'm not going to have to see the world these people are making. I'm just sorry for my granddaughter and her children.   Thank God I'm on the way out and not on the way in.
 
Classy. (And another reason the author doesn't seem to care about global warming. "I'm outta here! You clean it up!")

There is no way this will be widely publicized, unless each of us sends it on!

This is your chance to make a difference.
" I'm 76 and I'm tired.    If you don't forward this you are part of the problem".

Liars do so well on the internet (that is, assuming it's not an actual 76 year old white dude named "Bill Cosby." But I'm pretty sure the assumption that it was the 74 year old black comedian was intentional. I'm sure lots of people have dutifully forwarded it. I guess I'm "part of the problem." 

************************************

So... what do YOU think? Do you agree with the fake Bill Cosby?

Imaginary Conversations with Celebrities

Today I have given myself a new writing assignment. See, I went to see Toy Story on Ice with the fam the other night. Joe's vendor hooked us up with tickets to see the show in the company's box. One of those suites. Which meant that we stood in line at the VIP entrance. There were several "celebrities" in line with us. We saw a couple of TV actors whose names we couldn't remember, Patty Whatshername from Millionaire Matchmaker, the younger sister from Modern Family, Melissa Joan Hart (Clarissa, as Joe knew her from some orange couch something), and some other vaguely familiar faces. But DIRECTLY in front of us was Jennifer Love Hewitt. 

As a person who works with actors all the time, I know that actors are just regular people who happen to get paid to play pretend. Celebrity actors are the same as everyone, they just have to deal with weirdos that think they know that actor because they read US Weekly. I don't want to come off as one of those weirdos. So I try to be cool around people I recognize.

But that doesn't stop me from having weird imaginary conversations with them in my head.

Here is my imagined conversation with Jennifer Love Hewitt from that night. 

Me: Hi, Love.
JLH: Hi. Do we know each other?
Me: I was a featured extra in the 6th episode of Ghost Whisperer. I was one of the mental patients.
JLH: Oh yes! I remember you. You ate puzzle pieces. Brilliant acting.
Me: Thanks! You too.
JLH: I appreciate that.
Me: I got SAG eligible from that show. Oh! I never got to thank you for bringing Chic-Fil-A to the whole cast and crew one of the shoot days. That was so sweet of you.
JLH: No problem! I actually own a Chic-Fil-A.
Me: I had heard that. But are you aware of how anti-gay marriage rights Chic-Fil-A is?
JLH: Yes.
Me: Not cool, Jennifer Love Hewitt. Not cool........ Awkward. Well, enjoy the show.
 

(What actually happened.)
JLH glances at me with a flicker of a "Do I know that person? Probably not." and then smiles at Sebastian. I smile at her. She awkwardly looks away.
THE END

I posted this on Facebook, and one of my high school friends, Jose M, asked me to write an imaginary conversation between himself and Bill Hader, whom he sat next to on an airplane on a flight to New Mexico but to whom he said nothing. Here is that one:

Joe: Hi. I'm Joe. (Oh, wait. Do you actually go by Jose these days? Well, for the purposes of this fictional conversation, you still go by Joe.)
Bill: I'm Bill.
Joe: So... uh, why are you going to New Mexico?
Bill: I like tacos.
Joe: Oh, Bill Hader! You are hilarious. (Laughs for a little too long.)
Bill: .....
Joe: So... Sky Mall, huh?
Bill: ... Yeah.
Joe: In case you can't wait until you get out of the air to continue spending your money. Look at this one! A target alarm clock. Because nothing says waking up like a plastic glock in your hand.
Bill: ...
Joe: No laugh, no tip.
Bill: Excuse me, stewardess. Does this flight serve alcohol?
Joe: They aren't called stewardesses any more.
Bill: Lots of alcohol?
Joe: You're a dick. I'm not pretend talking to you anymore.

I think I should write a bunch of these. They are fun. So here goes today's episode of "Imaginary Conversations with Celebrities" from real encounters I have had:

EPISODE 1: JASON ALEXANDER

Kate is standing at the jewelry kiosk at which she works, which is located just outside the Arclight Hollywood (A movie theatre. It's awesome. Go there.). Jason Alexander walks up and admires some of the jewelry.

Kate: Can I help you find anything?
JA: No. I'm just browsing. This stuff is really nice.
Kate: Thanks. It's my friend's shop. I just work here to help out and get a little extra cash.
JA: Really? What do you actually do?
Kate: I'm a comedy writer and actor. (Because in Pretendland that's what I totally do professionally.)
JA: Would I recognize any of your work?
Kate: I doubt it.... Unless you happened to see "This Just In!" on Funny or Die.
JA: You wrote that? Oh my gosh! Now I recognize you! That is so hilarious!
Kate: Thanks!
JA: I have been thinking of producing my own sketch show featuring ridiculously obscure uploaded sketches  that have less than 50 views and a 73% funny rating.
Kate: Looks like I just made it. Let's hope nobody watches it and likes it anytime soon!
JA: Ha! You are so hilarious. Yes. I definitely want you involved with this project.
Kate: Great! Here's my card. (Which, in my imagination, reads "Kate Bishop: Funny Person") I'll have to write my number on it.
JA: Your cards are so clever. Nobody else in the world is edgy enough to not have their number on their card.
Kate: Thank you!
JA: I'm a hugger. Can I give you a hug?
Kate: Sure!
(They hug)
Kate: I feel like I'm at an 8th grade dance.
JA: ...
Kate: Ya know... because you are the same height as my boobs...
JA: ... Yeah.
Kate: (Makes a rimshot sound)
JA: I think I'm going to go into my movie now.
Kate: So... I'll talk to you soon?
JA: Sure.
(As Jason walks away, Kate sees him throw her card in the trash.)

What actually happened:
Kate stands at the jewelry kiosk and spots Jason Alexander walking up. He casually looks over at the jewelry from afar, then joins his group and walks into the theatre.
THE END

All the Single Ladies...

I read an article the other day entitled "Why You're Not Married." I found it to be fairly funny with a couple of sound points. So I posted it on my Facebook page, knowing that it would piss some of my friends off. And boy did it ever! But what really fascinated me about it was that, for the most part, my married friends found it to be amusing and have good points and my single friends were deeply offended by it.

Now, the article was infused with stereotypes which, at least in my reading, were meant to be exaggerated examples to be funny. However, my friends HATED them and railed against each example as though it was a literal guide of behavior. (I must admit, comparing men to 12 year old boys and their love of the uncomplicated Kim Kardashian, was funny and smacked of truth, but was demeaning to feminists who find it repugnant to expect women to behave like the reality star.) The article didn't really do itself many favors in the titles of the different sections. (e.g. "1. You're a Bitch.", "2. You're Shallow.", etc.) Ultimately, anytime a person writes anything in the 2nd person, they run the risk of offending those who don't identify with the person described.

But I started thinking about the idea of single women in our society and the idea that they really don't like advice about how to become married. I totally understand the perceived stigma of being single. I spent many years feeling like everyone in the world was happily paired off except for me, especially on evil days like Valentine's Day. It's typical to feel alone in our experiences. In fact, as a married person with a child, I often feel like all of my friends are unmarried and experiencing glamorous nights out without me. (I can't tell you HOW many invitations I have to turn down because I would have a 2 year old in tow!) Whatever we experience, we see others doing the opposite, when in reality, there are many others in our situation. And there are LOTS of single people out there. If not, online dating wouldn't be such a huge industry. But there is something harder about being a single person in a perceived world of couples. Part of that is that the assumption that people are single, not because they are making choices that keep them single, but because of who they are as people. And, sure, there are assholes out there who are single because they are assholes. But I would argue that it is much more commonly good people who make choices that keep them single.

[A caveat: I said it on my Facebook page and I will say it again. There are people out there, good people, who are single and want to be single. I'm not talking about these people at all. I have a lot of respect for people who feel completely fulfilled on their own. I'm also not talking about people who are fine being single, but are not totally opposed to the idea of someday finding someone. Too, also, I am not referring to those who are in long term relationships but who don't, for whatever reason, intend to get married. That is a perfectly valid point of view. And I am certainly not referring to LGBT people in happy relationships that want to get married, but are not able because of laws prohibiting it. That is a travesty that I'm sure I will blog about at length in the future. But today I'm not talking about any of these people. This series of thoughts are only about single people (not just women!) who WANT to get married, but are having trouble getting there.]

The thing that is so striking to me about single people who want to get married but can't seem to find the right match, is that they (especially the women) tend to be very defensive when the topic of marriage comes up. It probably stems from the perceptions I listed above. That they think that I think that there is something wrong with them because they are single. And they immediately launch into all of the extenuating circumstances that they have encountered that, together, put them in their "predicament." Lots of things happen to us in our lives that affect where we are at any given point. But we are also where we are as a result of our choices.

Look, if there was a poor person that had a rich friend, there were probably LOTS of circumstances that the poor person faced in his/her life that kept them from being rich. And the rich person probably had several legs up over the course of their life. But if the rich friend wanted to give advice to the poor person on things they might do to try to become rich (especially if the rich friend made no judgment call on the poor person about why they were poor), wouldn't it make sense that the poor person would listen to the advice? (And I'm sure that the metaphor is one of those things that people can attack. "Kate, are you saying that single people are like poor people and married people are like rich people?" No. I am merely using it as an example of "Person A is in a situation that Person B would like to be in.") But, advice to single people is constantly defended against, having points attacked, and the manner by which it is given becomes immediately suspect. So an advice giver is automatically trying to traverse a field of landmines of hurt feelings and righteous indignation.

Here is the absolute base of my point. I love my single friends. I am not friends with people who I don't think are good people, worthy of love. I also have an innate proclivity for matchmaking. Mostly it is because I want my friends to be happy. If they want to find their love match, why wouldn't I try to help them?

So, what follows comes from love, NOT judgment.

Advice to my Single Friends from Me.

If the truth about single people is that they are not bad people but sometimes make choices that, in conjunction with bad luck/timing/pickings, keep them single, what can be done? Well, we certainly have no control over things that happen TO us. So bad luck/timing/pickings aren't really something to be discussed at length, because we can't actually do anything about it. What should be focused on is what we do. (Again, I want to drive this point home. Who you ARE does not enter into this. My advice is about things you can DO to try to find a person to marry.)

I think, merely because the structure already exists and I'm lazy, that I will use the framework of the offending article as a starting point.

1. (The article says, "You're a Bitch.") I say, "Be Nice to People"

My Gram Gram was the nicest person I have ever met in my entire life. She NEVER said a harsh word about anyone. Ever. Period. She was the embodiment of sunshine and grace. When she died at 88 years old, over 100 people attended her funeral. That's a big number for that age. Trust me. I idolize the woman. Everyone who ever met her fell in love with her. When I was in high school and struggling socially, I asked her how I could be popular. She said, "Be nice to absolutely everyone." And it was true. I try to be like her. I know it doesn't always work. I am not Mary Sunshine. Sometimes I want to hit someone in the face. (Especially luxury car owners who cut me off in traffic.) But I find that I get a lot more positive attention from the opposite sex when I am cheerful. I'm not suggesting that single people have to walk around with a big fake smile plastered on their face. I'm not suggesting that snarky single people need to not be snarky. But being a little more positive never hurt anyone. Seeing the bright side. Even if it is once a day. Call it the daily "counting our blessings" moment. Crappy day? SOMETHING went right. Someone smiled at you when you needed it. Something made you laugh. If a person practices seeing the good in things, they start to see it naturally. And optimists are sexy. And being nice to people in general (talking to the barrista or server, smiling and making more eye contact, holding a door for someone) makes one meet more people in one's daily life. I have seen so many people that go through their lives "minding their own business" with their head down on their book or iPod or phone that miss possible connections. Looking around the room, smiling at people, encourages people to interact.

2. (Article says, "You're Shallow.") I say, "Don't Judge Too Quickly"

I knew my husband for nearly a year before I started dating him. It's not to say that I didn't immediately find him attractive. Anyone who has made the mistake of asking me how we got together has been forced to hear me recount the minutest details of our first encounter and how hot I thought he was. But, again and again, I kept deciding that he wasn't the one for me. He was "too geeky." He "dressed badly" (I mean, really. His trademark outfit was an ill-fitting Everquest T-shirt with cutoff black jeans, military style black boots, and white tube socks.). He didn't try to hit on me like some of his friends so he "wasn't interested in me" (to which I came up with myriad reasons why that would be). Eventually, we had an evening where we ended up kissing and it was not pleasurable. So, once again, I checked him off my list. What happened? I got my head out of my ass. I realized one day what a great guy he is. I stopped comparing him to some list in my head of what I "wanted" and just looked at him for who he was. Lists are crap. Lists are about judging a person. I stopped judging and started seeing him. I saw that he is an incredibly kind and hard working person. Yes, I find him attractive. That's a nice bonus. There are a lot of people out there, I was one of them, who would sabotage their love lives by only falling for unattainable people. Most of the time it was really good looking guys. So I would discount guys that were into me for one reason or another and fall madly in love with the hot actor/musician/whatever. I would justify it to myself that I just didn't have chemistry with the one who liked me. But the old adage is true: "Ugly people who have good personalities get better looking, and good looking people who have bad personalities get uglier." So, my advice is, if a person is more open to finding love anywhere, not just the perfect 10, and that person might find the beauty in someone unexpected.

3. (Article says, "You're a Slut.") I say, "Taking it Slowly Can Be Good"

Listen... I am the last person to tell anyone not to have sex outside of marriage. I don't expect anyone to abide by someone else's moral code. And I'm a believer in taking a test drive before you buy the car, as it were. (If you are reading this, family members, ignore the preceding sentences!) However, when a single person is ready to get married and wants to find a serious relationship, sleeping around doesn't help their chances. And, whether it is a stereotype or not, people don't have as much respect for someone who sleeps with them casually. Sex is important. But it is how the couple first approaches it that sets the tone for the future of the relationship. I'm just saying that saving it a little creates anticipation. And anticipation is good. (However, when you take anything to extremes, it turns ugly. For example, this. Ick.)

4. (Article says, "You're A Liar.") I say, "Be Honest About What You Want"

I often get in trouble because I sometimes struggle with the ability to censor myself. It might be perceived as a lack of tact, but I like to think of myself as an honest person. What I do sometimes have problems with is being totally honest with myself. I think that is pretty common. It's especially pervasive when we think we can't be honest with others. There is a school of thought that finding relationships is a game. I believe that it is only a game as long as you are playing it. If a person refuses to play, it's no fun for the others in "the game." So they don't play. If a person is honest about what they want, they WILL scare away the people that don't want that too. But those are the people that waste their time anyway, so what is the point in pursuing that avenue. If a person goes into a relationship with someone else and pretends that he or she is only interested in something casual, then later, when his/her true feelings are revealed, it comes across to the partner that they either a) were lying to them, or b) are crazy. I'm not saying that relationships can't be taken slowly. But, in my experience, it's better to let the other person know where you eventually want to be. Because it totally sucks to discover months into a relationship that the other person never ever wants to get married. I'm not advocating telling a first date that you wanna marry them. (Awkward.) Just having an open dialogue about the idea that one eventually wants to be married is healthy. And keeping the message consistent is important. Success comes from staying honest, not deciding someone can't handle it and retreating into going along with what is perceived to be what they want to hear.

5. (Article says, "You're Selfish.") I say, that's bullshit. Let's try, "Don't Be Self Destructive"

As a person who has sometimes struggled with depression, I can very easily explain the spiral that got me every time. Something would go wrong. I would think about that thing and why it happened. I would fixate on it. And fixate on it. And fixate on it. And whilst I fixated on the bad thing, other bad things would happen, because I wasn't paying proper attention to those other things. So then I would decide that "everything in my life was turning into shit." On those lonely days, I would decide that I could never find anyone and it was hopeless. And then I would get into a desperate funk that was totally unattractive. So it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is just an example, but there are many other ways in which we all stand in our own way. A good way to get out of that kind of funk is to find a constructive way to get your mind off of your own worries. My favorite activity in that vein is volunteering somewhere. It really gets some perspective on my problems to see just how hard other people have it. Or people can just find their own activity that gets them out of spiraling inward and starts spiraling outward.... even if it's just standing outside at night and looking up at the stars. That always makes me feel appropriately insignificant.

6. (Article says, "You Aren't Good Enough.") I say, "Realize Your Own Worth"

One of my friends, whom I will not name, blows my mind every time we talk. I think she is one of the smartest, funniest, delightful people that I know. But she is chronically single and every time I talk to her about it she says that she couldn't possibly look for a guy at her current weight. I will say this right now. It isn't about weight. I know a plethora of men that are into all different body types. There is a field of people available for absolutely every type of person out there. If the internet has taught us anything, it's that, if it exists, there are people that want to have sex with whatever "it" is. But single people, women especially, feel like they can't be rewarded until they achieve some mythical ending point to their personal aspirations. Look. I get it. As a plus sized person in an anorexic town, nobody understands more the challenges that face people who don't conform to the "normal" idea of "beauty." But, I can tell you, there IS no finish line. Society is like that sadistic trainer at the gym. No matter how far you have come, they always tack on "just a little bit more." Now, I'm not advocating "giving up" on yourself. I am advocating loving yourself as you are. If working out (or wearing nice clothes or whatever) makes you feel good about yourself, bravo! But your love for yourself shouldn't be conditional on achieving certain goals. Because our potential partners take cues from us on how to act toward us. Here is my secret to confidence. It seems stupid, but it works. Fake it. You fake confidence and people start seeing you as a confident person, so they treat you like a person that deserves to be confident. And, eventually, you will actually feel confident for real. I used to be one of the most insecure people ever. Then one day I started acting like I believed in myself. Soon others believed in me. And they convinced me I was right. Now I actually feel it. (Now, I'm not in anyway talking about arrogance or being a jerk. That antagonizes people. No es bueno. Confidence is just about you, not about how you compare to other people.)

So... that's my version of the advice. And I'm the first one to say, it is by no means a comprehensive list of advice for single people. It is a jumping off point. And, just like the rich man who gives advice to his poor friend, not all the answers that worked for that rich man will work for the poor man. Some things are appropriate, some are not. The advice that doesn't work for the poor man doesn't negate the value of the advice that might work out. And getting other input is invaluable too. There are lots of different ways to get rich, just like there are lots of different ways to get into a relationship.

Single friends, I say all of this with love and respect. And married friends, I encourage you to be aware of how hard it is for single people to take advice from us, especially when they feel we are judging them.

The original article created QUITE a stir on my Facebook page. I wonder what your thoughts are regarding finding a partner. Do any married people have any other (respectful) advice to add?